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Disclaimer: Firefly and all related elements, characters and indicia © Mutant Enemy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television, 2003. All Rights Reserved. All characters and situations—save those created by the authors for use solely on this website—are copyright Mutant Enemy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.

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Author's Note: This story contains mature themes, including sexual violence. Proceed with caution.

Acknowledgements: Huge huge thank yous to all my betas, especially amilynh, Amy the browncoat, Dangermom, LiquidEyes, BK, annieM, maystone, Harri Vane, Yahtzee, and the entire Lj crowd who provided encouragement during the almost four month gestation period. Extra special thanks to amilynh for excellent help with research, scrunchy for letting me 'watch' her read the various drafts over IM. Could not have done it without you all.

Lex Talionis
by Tara O'Shea

And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life,
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,
Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.

—Exodus 21:23-25

Part I

There was darkness, and pain, and voices.

Simon!

Wôde tìan, Kaylee!

It's going to be okay, mèimei. Kaylee? Can she hear me?

Kaylee, can you hear me? C'mon, open your eyes. Stay with me, xin gan. Kaylee? Can you—

"—hear me? Kaylee!" Margaret Frye's voice cut through the summer birdsong as she stood out on the front porch, hands cupped around her mouth so her voice would carry. "Dammit, where is that girl..."

She smoothed her cotton dress down over her hips for the eighth time and resisted the urge to check her chrono yet again. By now, three generations of Fryes, Carters, Neelans and Mitchells would be gathering at the church just north of Riverside. Waiting on the three of them and probably gossiping up a storm. With a sigh, she stepped down off the porch, out into the yard. "Kaylee! I ain't gonna call you again, girl!"

"I'm here!" Kaylee called down from the tree house her daddy had built her brothers before she was even born.

Margaret stood at the base of the old oak tree, fists resting on her hips as her youngest daughter started backwards down the ladder, something clutched against her chest. "Kaywinnet Lee Frye, I have been calling you for the last ten minutes!"

"Sorry, Mamma."

Meg sighed, exasperated, as she took in Kaylee's grubby overalls and grease-stained fingers. "Why ain't you ready? We're s'posed to leave—"

"I didn't want to muss up my dress," she shrugged. "I'll go get ready—"

"What have you got there?"

"Just Uncle Cal's compressor, for the mule."

"What in God's name are you doing with that? Your daddy told Cal the damn thing was done for—"

"No, it ain't. I can fix it." Child was puffed up with pride, and it was eerie at times, seeing such a tiny mite of a thing so purposeful.

"You're never gonna get the grease from under your nails; Sherry's gonna never let me hear the end of it," she said with a sigh, taking it from her, frowning as she placed it—still wrapped in the soft grey cloth—on the table next to the porch swing. There was still a glass half full of lemonade, the ice melted into it, sitting there. Water beaded on the side of it, making a ring on the hard plastic tabletop. "You scrub 'em as hard as you can, you hear me? Your daddy's on his way to pick us up."

"But the 'pressor!"

"You leave that here with me. Your father would tan your hide, he knew you'd been rooting around in his workshop again."

She bussed her mother's cheek with a kiss. "Just tell him not to throw it 'way!"

"We are gonna be late to the church, and you know how Grams is about folks skulking in late to a Christening."

"I know, I just thought I'd get it done 'fore it was time to go."

"No excuses, now! You just go clean up and put on the dress I laid out for you on your bed. You can wear the bracelet Tallie gave you for your birthday. You bring it down, and I'll do up the clasp. Now git!"

Meg smacked Kaylee on the bottom as she scampered inside to get cleaned up, long braids bobbing behind her. She'd been towheaded as a baby, and summers spent in the sun had made it blaze almost white. The last year or so it had come in darker, and it looked now like she'd have brown hair like her daddy. He'd been blond as a baby too; Meg had seen the vids. Only the boys had inherited Meg's frizzy orange curls.

She sighed as she looked down at the mess of parts that together would keep her brother's mule going for another month.

When Tallie, her eldest daughter, was eleven years old, it had been dolls, ribbons and bows, and boys. Middle girl, Sasha, she'd had her head in a book and you couldn't drag her out of one unless the house was on fire. And even then, it was a struggle. Then there'd been the three boys, and Meg had longed for the simple problems of two girls under the same roof, fighting over the bathroom, hair bobs, or screentime on the cortex.

Kaywinnet had been a surprise. In every way. There was ten years between Kyle and Kaylee, and Meg hadn't thought she could even have another child by the time Kaylee had come along.

Ever since she could crawl, it was all Margaret and Ephram could do to keep the girl's hands out of her daddy's toolbox. Sam and Kyle, who had worked with their daddy since they were old enough to finish primary school and were the best mechanics in the shop next to their father, didn't have half the natural talent that Kaylee had been born with. Ephram said that day in and day out, as they crawled into their bed at night, waiting for the rest of the house to quiet down, all the young'uns tucked in—and windows bolted from the outside to keep 'em in, in some cases.

Kaylee had a rare gift. She could as much as look at a thing that was broke, see what was wrong with it, and half the time patch it right up—spares or no spares. And her not even twelve yet. If she spent half her time at school actually learning her maths and letters, rather than sketching engine diagrams in the margins of her textbooks, she could go to any Academy on Zephyr. The girl was whip-smart. But all she seemed to care about were machines, and how to best set them to rights.

She still remembered when the school had called her in on her lunch one day. She'd hightailed it from the factory to the clutch of white buildings that the primary school had overflowed into years ago—temporary buildings that had somehow gotten to be permanent, and were falling to bits all around them. She'd been sick with worry that something had happened to her baby, her youngest, and the apple of her eye.

There had been nine-year-old Kaylee, her flowered dress tore in three places, braids all askew, standing in front of the vice principal's desk. While Meg could do nothing but gape, her baby carefully explained, as if to a child, how the air conditioning unit in the teacher's lounge was malfunctioning—leaking into the maintenance closet on the first floor—and that the fire that hadn't started would have made a right mess of stuff if she hadn't caught it.

A janitor had found her in the closet when she was supposed to be in class, up to her elbows in a mess of wiring. They'd called Meg in to reprimand her; only now, they were sitting there thanking her.

Always a surprise, her Kaylee-bird.

She wrapped the compressor more tightly in the cloth, shaking her head as she headed inside the house. She blamed Ephram, of course. He'd taken Kaylee to work with him almost every day when she'd still been working at the factory and couldn't get none of the other kids to mind the baby until Kaylee was old enough to go off to primary with the other tech-rat brats.

Until Grams and Grampap had moved in and took over minding her, Kaylee had grown up a stone's throw from the spaceport, being minded by a rag-tag group of social misfits who kept those flying tin cans in the air. It was all she could do to keep her eyes in her head, when something passed above her, and she'd smile like she was fit to bust.

Meg was gonna lose her baby girl to one of those hulking monstrosities someday. She felt it in her bones.

Simon wasn't going to lose her. Not like this.

That was the mantra he had repeated to himself from the moment they had found her, crumpled in a heap outside the cargo bay doors. Thrown away like trash—like she wasn't a person. Like she didn't matter.

The wounds were fresh; he didn't know how long she'd been unconscious, and that worried him. For all he knew, she could have been lying there, propped against the hull like a broken toy for hours—or minutes. If River hadn't come and found him, dragged him to the cargo bay...

She'd come to on the way to the infirmary. As Jayne had laid her on the table, she'd begun to struggle weakly, hazel eyes filling with tears.

Simon had smoothed her hair back from her face, wiped away her tears gently with his thumb. "It's okay, Kaylee. You're safe. You're on Serenity. No one is going to hurt you. You're safe," he said, trying to soothe her the way he would River during a fit.

He'd gestured for Mal to hand him the smoother, and he had. Without asking why, or even if what he was doing was the right thing to do. The hypo had hissed against her neck, and then her eyes had mercifully closed, tears leaving tracks through the blood and dirt before they were swallowed by her hair.

He'd asked them all to leave. They'd gone. They hadn't been happy about it, but they'd gone.

He'd cut away the ripped and bloody coverall, placing it and what remained of Kaylee's shirt in a paper sack that now sat on the counter. There were bloody handprints on it, but his hands were clean now. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his hands were scrubbed pink and encased in gloves as he carefully cleaned each wound with antiseptic, bandaging and sewing as he went. He'd only gotten a little blood on one cuff. The one red smear was fading to brown now. Just one more bloodstain that might come out in the wash, or might not. He was running out of white shirts that didn't have blood on them—his or someone else's.

It hadn't been Kaylee's in a long time. Such a simple thing to take comfort in. So simple he'd taken it for granted. Sometimes the simplest things could leave the ugliest scars.

He catalogued them all. Every cut. Every bruise. His stomach rolled, threatening to empty itself all over the infirmary floor at the bite marks. The bruises that were already livid purple on her wrists and shoulders, back and thighs. The blood that he carefully washed away from where she'd bitten her lip, the inside of her cheek, her tongue. The blood that had run down her legs and continued to—albeit sluggishly—while he tended to each individual hurt.

He'd taken samples and stored them. That was what you did, cases like this. He'd seen a few of them in the ER. He knew what to do.

He always knew what to do.

Through it all, her eyes had remained closed, her chest rising and falling steadily, the only sign that she was still with him. That she hadn't gone yet.

Inara had brought him some of her clothes: a clean white tee-shirt, and soft flannel trousers with tiny blue flowers, thin in places from being washed so many times. He recognised them—had a sudden flashback to the last time she'd worn them, the two of them lying on his bed on top of the covers, fingers intertwined, talking.

He couldn't lose her. Not like this. He wouldn't. That was what he kept telling himself. As if repeating the words could make it true. As if through sheer force of will, he could fix it all. Make it all better, like a mother kissing a child's skinned knee.

He finally covered her with the softest blankets her could find, brushing her hair back from her forehead tenderly. He'd washed the blood out of it best he could, and it curled against her neck and cheeks.

He opened the infirmary doors and gestured for Mal to come inside before closing the doors again.

The others were outside in the passenger lounge, which was serving for the moment as waiting room. He could see Book and Jayne through the one window he hadn't dimmed during the examination, the former with his head bent in prayer, the latter simply staring straight ahead, something dangerous shining in his eyes. And now that he was paying attention, he could hear Wash's and Zoe's voices through the closed door. They were all worried. They were all frantic. Because it was Kaylee.

He had no idea where River was. That thought jolted him for a moment.

"How is she?" Mal asked, looking grim as death. They were the first words he'd spoken in more than an hour. Since they'd found her.

"No internal bleeding near as I can tell from the scans," he answered as he leaned heavily against the edge of the examination table, the rush of adrenaline wearing off, taking its toll as it fled. "She's got broken ribs, a type 1 pelvic fracture; it's hairline and should heal with bed rest. Two broken fingers on her left hand. I've set and taped them, and the swelling should go down in a few days. And she's lost a tooth, a right molar. But her jaw wasn't broken. That's something, at least. Bruises, shallow cuts, contusions. I've doped her for the pain—"

"She gonna come though?" Mal interrupted him, and he winced.

It was so much easier, just to list every hurt, one by one. Pretend that together, all the pieces didn't make such an ugly picture. Simon was thorough. He knew his job. He knew how to care for his patients.

It was so much easier when it wasn't the woman he was fairly certain he was in love with, lying unconscious on the table.

"There's only so much I can do for her here," he said matter-of-factly.

"Tell me where we need to go, and I'll take us there."

Simon nodded, feeling increasingly numb.

"Mal?"

"Yes?"

"There's more."

In thirteen-year-old Kaylee Frye's unvarnished opinion, Michael O'Brien was the cutest boy in Riverside.

Kaylee had watched him, the last four weeks, as he and his sisters stood in the back of the church at services. Sweat made his dark blond hair stick to his neck, which was red from hours spent out in the sun, loading cargo onto the big freighters with his daddy and brothers. His eyes were this kind of pale blue, and she bet that up close, there were maybe flecks of gold in them. Because that was how, in the cache of romance novels Sasha had left her when she'd gone off to school, the hero's eyes were always described. Didn't matter what colour they were; there were always flecks of something in them. She itched to get up close enough to see for herself.

She'd helped her mamma and grams set up their corner of the bake sale. Margaret Frye's peach pie was legendary, and Grams' applesauce cake wasn't too shabby neither, especially covered in thick whipped cream. Folks were already starting to line up when Kaylee caught sight of Michael out the corner of her eye, talking to Harb Jenson and his cronies.

Rumour was that Jenson was going off to fight in the war like his daddy and uncle. Half the girls in Riverside were staring at him, heads bent together, whispering. They said that the war would be over soon—but then, they always said that. Heck, they'd said it that first Christmas, and that had been nigh on three years ago, now. It was just somethin' people said, her daddy had told her, because they wished it were so.

Zephyr was split pretty much down the middle, in terms of how folks felt about the war. When you didn't have much to start with, it was easy to see why the Independents had tried to secede, to hold onto what little they had free and clear, her daddy had explained to her when she was old enough to ask where her cousin Charlie had gone. And why he hadn't come back. But the Alliance was good for stuff too—like medicine, and schooling—and there weren't nothing in the 'verse that was just black and white. There was all sorts of shades of grey to trap a man in-between.

Mamma still cried for Charlie, sometimes.

She got herself a cup of punch from the bowl little Nellie Reilly was standing next to, and when she turned, there was Michael O'Brien, standing there with a flimsy paper cup of his own.

"Heya," she said, trying to sound calm and cool even though her tongue felt too big in her head and some of the punch splashed over the side of her cup, sticky sweet juice dripping down the side of her hand. Normally, she'd just lick it off—not wanting to waste a drop. But she just pretended that she hadn't noticed, and prayed he wouldn't either.

"Hey," he said, and smiled. Two of his front teeth were a little crooked, but that only made her stomach tighten with butterflies, because he was smiling at her.

"You're Kay Frye, aren't you?" he asked, taking a sip of his punch.

"Kaylee," she corrected automatically, and felt her cheeks heat up with a flush. "Um... that's what—everybody just calls me Kaylee."

"Sorry, Kaylee," he said, and smiled again. "I've seen you around."

"Yeah, I work with my daddy," she looked around for him, to point him out, but he'd already disappeared—probably to play horseshoes down by the river with her uncles and cousins like he usually did on Sundays. "As a mechanic."

"Yeah, that's what I heard." He took another swallow of punch, and she could see Mary Ellen Parsons and Cassie Rose giving her the glare of death from over by Mrs. Keller's rows of muffins and tarts. Mary Ellen had had her eye on Michael O'Brien ever since his folks had moved to Riverside, and there was gonna be some hair-pulling for sure, next time she and her crew got Kaylee alone in the church hall coat closet. "You really as good as they say you are?"

She took a sip of her punch, turning her back on the girls. "Depends—what they say?"

"That you can re-wire a mule's transmission in seven minutes."

"Naw, that ain't true," she said with a laugh.

"It ain't?" He looked crestfallen.

"Nope." She grinned. "I can do it in five."

"Kaylee!" Grams called from the table, and she glanced back to see both her mamma and grams waving her over to help them out with the line of folks waiting to get their sweets.

She put her half-empty cup down on the edge of the table and wiped her sticky hands on the skirt of her floral print dress. "I gotta—"

"You gonna be at summerfair?" he asked quickly, reaching out to catch her, and she got goose-bumps as his strong brown fingers closed over her tanned forearm.

"I was planning on it, yeah." She tucked her hair behind her ears, suddenly feeling coy. "Why? You, ah, gonna be there?"

"I might."

Yep, his blue eyes had flecks in 'em, all right. Right around the irises there were little bits of gold, like the sun shining in a summer day.

"You gonna save me a dance?" she asked, bold as brass, heart hammering in her ears.

"I might."

"Well, I guess I'll just have to see you there," she said, sauntering past the gossiping girls with a wide grin and a skip in her step.

Mal hadn't seen the punch coming. He had to hand it to the doctor—his right cross was definitely top three percent.

"You son of a bitch," the boy said—softly, so Zoe wouldn't come in, guns blazing. So softly that Kaylee, lying there on the table wouldn't have heard—even had the sound of his fist meeting flesh and bone penetrated her drug-induced slumber. "You rutting bastard," he said, with as much hatred and anger as Mal had ever heard in his voice. But the second punch never came.

Mal wiped the blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving Simon's. He slid the doors of the infirmary open and met the anxious faces of his crew.

"Is Kaylee going to be all right?" Wash asked, blond brows furrowed. Zoe was at his side, her hands resting on his shoulders.

"She'll heal," Simon said, his jaw tight.

"Doc did a good job patching her up, she's gonna... She's gonna be okay," he said, avoiding Simon's eyes. "Wash, break atmo. I want us as far away from here as we can get without burning out our engines."

"Sir?" Zoe prompted him. "What about Badger's men—"

Mal swore. He'd forgotten all about the job. That was how shook he was. He'd almost forgotten why they were on Greenleaf in the first place. It had been completely pushed out of his mind by the shock of coming down the stairs and finding Kaylee being carried unconscious into the cargo bay, her hair matted to her face with blood. It was something he had a feeling he'd be seeing every single time he closed his eyes, possibly for the next month.

"We're not waiting for Badger's men," Mal said, making his decision even as the words left his mouth. "We're getting out of here now."

Zoe's gaze was wary. "Badger ain't gonna like that."

She cared about Kaylee as much as he did—maybe even more. But it had always been her job, from day one, to be the voice of reason when his had fled him. So he didn't resent her much for saying what he already knew.

"Badger can go hang. We got our own to be looking after."

"Any particular course...?"

He turned back to Wash. "Just get us the hell off this rock."

Wash, so pale Mal thought he could count his freckles, nodded and with one last squeeze of his wife's hand, headed up the stairs towards the flight deck. His footfalls echoed in the sudden silence.

"What about them that did this?" Jayne asked, and Mal almost started. The big mercenary had been quiet ever since the doc had shooed him out of the infirmary. He'd sat on the lowest step of the metal ladder, passing his bowie knife from hand to hand, a muscle clenching in his jaw.

Mal knew that Jayne had a soft spot for Kaylee—hell, they all did. Waves of fury came off the mercenary like heat, and Mal knew exactly what Jayne wanted to do right now. He knew because he felt it too, ripping through his gut, twisting and burning.

He wanted to kill. It was that simple. He wanted to make it slow, he wanted to make it last, and he wanted to make it as painful as possible. But mostly, he wanted to destroy the bastards who had used and abused an innocent girl who'd never hurt another soul. Who didn't have it in her to hurt a fly, let alone another human being.

"You let me worry on that for now."

"Dammit, Mal—"

"I said leave it, Jayne."

Jayne was a pack animal, and he didn't have it in him—yet—to take Mal. So he backed down. Mal could tell he didn't like it, but he backed down and inside him, something relaxed just that fraction more. The last thing Mal needed right now was for Jayne to push him. Because, state he was in, he might just do something he'd regret. And he needed Jayne.

He needed all of them.

"I need to go change my shirt," Simon said, fiddling with the bloodstained cuff. Mal nodded at him to go ahead, but Simon didn't even seem to see him. The boy looked like Mal felt: wrung out, drained, angry. Mal didn't blame him. Didn't blame him one bit.

"Captain, do you think the doctor would mind it I—if I prayed for her?" Book asked, and Mal bit back an automatic bitter rejoinder. Instead, he nodded and watched as the shepherd pulled up a stool, taking the unconscious girl's hand in his as he bent his head in silent prayer.

Save your prayers for them that did this, Preacher, Mal thought, but didn't say. They're the ones who're gonna need 'em.

"Mal?" Inara followed him out of the passenger lounge, running to catch up to him.

"Inara, this isn't really—"

"I'm not blind," she said simply. "And I'm not stupid."

He should have known he couldn't hide it from her. He felt light-headed, suddenly; like all the air has gone out of him. "She'll be... she'll get through."

Inara stared at him, her dark eyes unreadable. She'd been all dressed up—just come back from an appointment. Now the kohl around her eyes was smudged, the lipstick bitten away, and she had her shawl wrapped around her as if she was chilled to the bone, even though Serenity's E-Cee was regulating the temperature just fine.

"Who are we running from?" she asked, hand on his arm. He looked down at those dark red fingernails, staring before he shook off the comfort of her touch.

"Who said we're running?"

Kaylee ran. Her long legs ate up the distance between the river and the boarding house, but she made sure she was going slow enough that he could still catch her. After all, the whole point was the getting caught. Sure enough, an arm snaked out and got her round the waist just before they hit the front porch.

Wilson wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her neck, and she squealed as he deposited her on the wooden porch swing, which creaked and groaned in protest, its chains rattling. His beard scraped her jaw as he kissed her—smacking kisses that slowed and changed into long, sensual ones that stole her breath clean away and made her stomach drop like she was in zero-gee.

She'd met him at the shop, like dozens of other pilots in port, waiting for their ships to get set to rights before they headed back out into the black. He'd been hanging around for days, and she'd taken a shine to him. He was older than she was—more than a decade—but his green eyes sparkled with a kid's joy and laughter as she'd shown him around town, arm tucked in his.

Sam and Kyle had ribbed her for days, but her daddy had just scowled. She knew how he felt about her taking up with an older man—which was why she'd told her mamma she was going to spend the day out with Mac at the stables. Her cousin—only six months older, and much more like a sister than the sisters she did have, on account of them being grown and married when she was just a kid—had been more than happy to help with the little subterfuge. It all seemed like a grand romantic adventure, and Kaylee felt like the heroine of some story as Wil swept her up and carried her inside like a bride on her wedding day.

The boarding house kitchen was empty, late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and making dust motes dance through the warm spring air. Mrs. Riordan was off at the market, and they hadn't seen hide nor hair of the other boarders all day. She'd dropped back down to her feet, so they could climb the steep wooden staircase to the second floor room Wilson had rented for the night while his ship, a sleek 80-10, was being overhauled down in the port.

They fell on the bed, kissing, and the brightly patterned coverlet got rucked up beneath her shoulder blades as he pushed her back up against the pillows, hands buried in her hair. She fussed with the buttons of her dress impatiently, gasping as his hand found her breast.

She was startled out of her fog of desire by thunderous knocking on the door of Wil's room. She hastily re-buttoned her dress, tugging the skirt back down as he bounded up to answer it, re-fastening his trousers as he went.

"Mrs. Riordan, I'm a little—" he began, and then stepped back as the door flew open.

"You treacherous snake!"

Ephram Frye had his hands around Wilson's throat and looked like he was gonna throttle him. His face was beet red, his sandy hair sticking up, and his eyes were wild.

"Daddy!" She leapt up, trying to pry her father's hands from Wil's throat. "Daddy, stop it!"

"She ain't nothing but a girl, you gorram—" Ephram snarled as Kaylee managed to hold him back long enough for Wil to step backwards and land heavily on the bed, massaging his throat with his fingers.

"Sir, I don't—I didn't—" Wil croaked, and Kaylee got Ephram around the waist as her father lunged for him again.

"Daddy, stop!"

She flinched as he turned on her, his expression thunderous.

"Kaywinnet Lee, you git your ass out to the mule this instant."

"B-Bà bà—" she stammered, eyes wide. She'd never once in her fifteen years seen her father so mad, not even when he'd caught her making out with Mitchell Graves last summer. He'd given her a whupping when his folks had come to fetch him home, but he hadn't been even half so mad as he was now.

"I said now, girl!"

"Pop, please don't hurt him—" she begged.

"Git!" he snapped, grasping her roughly by the arm and half-dragging her out into the hall. She ran down the stairs, half-blinded by tears as she stumbled past a gobsmacked Mrs. Riordan who was unloading a box full of dry goods.

Kaylee sat in the mule, shaking, her eyes fixed on the front door. She had all sorts of terrible images running through her head—each one worse than the last—and tears ran down her cheeks unchecked, making them sting. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, blinking and hearing muted shouts still from the wooden frame house. She was petrified of her daddy killing Wilson and being carted off to jail by the Feds. Of what her mamma would say, and how they'd manage the shop...

Ephram stomped down the stairs a few minutes later, his face still all red, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. He started up the mule, and they drove all the way home in silence. Kaylee couldn't stop crying, and she was too scared to ask what he'd done to Wilson. His face was like the side of a mountain, features carved of stone.

They pulled up in front of the house, and her mamma was standing on the front porch, arms crossed, looking half as stony as her husband.

"I see you found her," she said, not even meeting Kaylee's eyes.

"Down at Riordan's with that liúmáng from Harlan's ship," he said, and Meg just sighed and went inside. The screen door slammed behind her, and Kaylee still sat on the hard seat of the mule, wiping at her cheeks as her daddy sat down on the porch swing. He motioned for her to come sit beside him, and she stumbled to her feet, feeling light-headed.

The swing creaked and groaned as she sat down, smoothing her dress as best she could. She stared at her shoes, eyes still burning. They just sat for a few minutes, and she finally glanced up warily from beneath her lashes at her father.

He looked so tired. So much older than he'd ever looked before.

"Kaylee, how old are you?"

"Fifteen, you know that, Pop. My birthday was two months back."

"Do you know how old that man you was with is?"

"Older'n me," she said, her voice very small. She was tall for her age; could pass for eighteen, maybe even twenty, she get herself all dolled up. She'd never told Wilson how old she actually was.

"Do you understand that it ain't right for a man that age—more'n ten years older'n you—to take up with a girl? Do you understand that what he did—"

"Daddy, he didn't do nothing!"

"Only 'cause Mac told me where you was. If I'da gotten there an hour later—don't you lie to me, Kaywinnet. I know what you was about."

"I'm sorry, Pop."

"No, you ain't. But you will be. Now you listen to me, Kaylee Frye, and you listen good, 'cause I am only gonna say this once. You got yourself a gift. A natural talent."

She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up a hand for silence.

"And you get yourself in trouble by some shiny pilot and end up an indentured servant living on some border planet, with six brats and a husband you'd never see except when his ship was in port—you are throwing that gift away and spitting in the eye of the God who gave it to you."

She started to cry again, holding in her sobs as best she could as he took her hand in his.

"Kaylee-bird, you got a mess of cousins all in the same sorry state, and you are headed down that same road. Getting all ahead of yourself. Do you understand me, girl? You have a gift. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna see you end up some gutter trash, wasting what the good Lord gave you. You're better'n that. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"Now you go get cleaned up, and help your mamma with supper."

"You ain't gonna whup me?"

"I just beat the hell outta a man half my age; that's all the whupping I can do in a day."

"I'm sorry, Bà bà," she said softly.

"You show me you're sorry by never getting mixed up in a mess like this again, dong ma?"

She went inside, but not before she saw her daddy start to cry, sitting there on the front porch on a Sunday evening, the sun blazing down and casting long shadows on the lawn.

Simon sat on the end of his bunk heavily. The bloodstained shirt slipped from his fingers, landing in a heap on the floor. He stared down at his knuckles, where the blood oozed from where the skin had broken against Mal's teeth. Just stared.

"There's DNA evidence. We can find whoever did this, prosecute them—" Simon had said, almost rambling, and Mal had shook his head.

"I know who did this."

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he started. But it was only River, dark eyes wide in her pale face half-hidden by her hair. He wondered for a moment where she had been; he couldn't remember seeing her in the lounge. He should have gone to look for her, tell her himself what had happened. Kaylee was her friend. She must have been worried.

"Put on a brave face, so no one saw," she said softly, her fingers tightening on his shoulder. "No cracks. No eggshells."

"River..." he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

She was frowning, her dark eyes shining with her own unshed tears. "Hands where you'd been—hurting and twisting. Teeth, and hands, and other things. And so much hurt, and so much pain."

Everything inside him felt tight, like a toy whose spring had been wound too far. Like he would snap, or fall to pieces, at the slightest pressure.

She blurred, reduced to colour and shapes by tears. He blinked, and she came back into focus.

"Not your hands. They heal people. Keep them from harm and injustice." She took his face in both her hands. "You have clarity of purpose. You're purposeful."

River brushed away his tears with the balls of her thumbs. His mother used to do that, when they were children. Easing away all the pain with a gentle touch.

He'd always imagined that once he became a doctor, he'd be able to do that with his hands. Erase every trace of a wound with just the brush of his fingers. He reached up to wrap his hands loosely around her wrists, tracing the curve of her thumb with one of his.

"Not your hands," she repeated, as if the words could heal. She carefully put her arms around him, as if he was fragile and would break.

Which he did.

Sinking to his knees, he wrapped his arms around her waist, cheek against her stomach. She stroked his hair, murmuring empty words of comfort as his shoulders shook and his tears soaked the front of her dress.

Part II

Lord, please look after Your child who is suffering now. She's a sweet, kind girl, full of light and hope in a 'verse with precious little of both. This child of Yours is a gift. Since meeting her, I've never seen her be anything but kind and gracious, sharing what little she has freely and without pause. She's a good soul, a credit to You in nearly every way.

Amen.

The engine room was quiet.

Kaylee had left her toolbox out and open, a wrench sitting on its side across the open lid, to hand in case she'd needed it. The engine spun lazily, steady as a heartbeat, keeping them all alive as she went.

Mal sat down heavily on the edge of a raised bulkhead, and pulled the cortex link out of the pocket of his shirt. He plugged the datachip into the slot and hit playback, knuckles white where they gripped the hard plastic reader. His jaw ached from Simon's punch. He welcomed the pain, in a way.

Mal's stomach twisted, threatened. He clamped down hard on it—even though his throat burned as the message played again, volume turned down low so no one could hear it. He didn't need to hear it; he almost had it memorised, even though he'd only viewed it once thus far. The reader still bore the marks from where he'd flung it across the cargo bay, and it had hit a storage container hard before clattering to the deck. He was lucky it still functioned at all. Kaylee would have tore into him, if he'd broken it... And probably fixed it in the time it took for him to walk from one end of the bay to another.

He didn't see the face on the cortex screen. All he could see, whether his eyes were opened or closed, was Kaylee's still form on the examination table.

He'd seen worse—much worse. In the war, and after. This was different. The boy had been right. This was all his fault.

"You're just the moon, reflecting the light back. But the sun is cold, and you've gone dark."

Mal looked up to see River. The girl was standing just inside the hatchway, leaning against the door.

"I suppose I have at that," he said as she came the rest of the way in and sat down, cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Her red cotton blouse had been Zoe's once; he remembered when she'd bought it, so many years ago. The pattern was faded now, from washing. She was barefoot; she always seemed to find reasons to kick off her shoes, and the soles of her feet were almost black with grime from Serenity's hallways. He wondered if Simon had given her a talking to about that yet. "Your brother know you're up and about?"

"Simon can't see me. He looks, but all he sees is her."

"Well... I can see how that would—"

"He won't stop," she said, cutting him off. "He won't stop until you're alone."

He knew without asking that she wasn't referring to Simon anymore.

"You know, it ain't nice to go peeking inside folks' heads without them knowing."

She shrugged. "Cannot be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion. Customs curtsy to great kings."

"More poetry? Aren't you just the fancy one, now."

"More at stake than they know."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"They love her. They love you. If you don't tell them, you cut your own hair."

"Okay, now you've lost me, with the whole barbering segue there."

She got up on her knees, and leaned forward, brushing his hair lightly with the tips of her fingers. "He knows how to hurt you by not hurting you. He knows, can't take that away. Can't take it back. Too late. The bird has already escaped from that cage. But you need to stand tall, stand together. They can't stand unless you tell them."

She withdrew her hand, let it fall to her side. The movement carried a strange kind of grace to it. Mal just looked at her, feeling slightly disconnected, unnerved yet somehow made stronger by the girl's clear gaze.

"Gorram geniuses, always being right," he muttered, and she smiled.

"That's my ship."

He was a pretty one—blond hair brushed back from his forehead. He had the arms of his jump-suit tied loosely around his waist, and she was real curious about the tattoos that criss-crossed his muscled chest. He'd shown up the day before, looking for spare parts, and they'd fallen to talking while her daddy had looked to see what they had could jury-rig a firefly secondary grav boot. He said his name was Bester, and they were stopping over on Zephyr on their way to Paquin. She'd run into him again that morning at one of the fresh fruit stalls in the market and trailed along after him back to the docks.

But pretty as he was, Kaylee couldn't tear her eyes away from the aught-three firefly sitting down there at the dock. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. Sitting there, shining in the hot summer sun, it just fair took her breath away. There was no wind, and she could hear cicadas down by the river, their song carrying in the still air.

Her cargo bay doors were open in an attempt to keep airflow while the engine wasn't moving. It wouldn't do much good, not in this heat. Kaylee had braided her hair to keep it off her neck and tugged on a short little sundress that morning, foregoing her usual canvas coverall because it was just too damned hot to bother. Not on a Sunday, anyway. The docks had been half-dead all summer, and her daddy and the boys had spent almost more time fishing on the river to put food on the table, than being hired out on retrofitting jobs.

"She's so... mêilì." Kaylee sighed. "She use a trace compression block?"

"Uh... yeah. I think so."

"Oh, I have been itching to get my hands on one of those so bad!"

For her eighteenth birthday, Kaylee had gotten a brand new toolbox, full of her very own tools. She'd grown up using her daddy's and her brothers' gear. Her mamma had fussed, saying that weren't no fitting present for a gal coming of age and all, but Kaylee had just beamed with pride.

Ephram had always talked about Sam taking over the shop when he got ready to retire, but of late, he'd been dropping hints that maybe Kaylee would make a better accounting than Sam. She knew near every junkyard and scrap shop in Riverside, and chatted on the cortex with others far away as New Melbourne and Cheyenne, all the way on the other side of the planet. Packages streamed into the shop, as she spent her mad money on shiny new gadgets and parts, instead of ribbons and clothes like her sisters had before her. Not that Kaylee didn't love a bit of frippery now and again—but faced with a new dress, or a barely used secondary grav boot, there just weren't no choice as far as she was concerned.

But as much as her daddy's confidence in her made her shine, the truth was, she imagined a life bigger than staying on in Riverside, mending ships and watching them all sail away. In her heart of hearts, she wanted to sign on as a maintenance tech and see those stars close up. Not to one of them big Alliance cruisers. When their shop had gotten conscripted to over-haul an Alliance cruiser last summer, she'd seen first hand what a giant cock-up their engineering was. Their cooling drive system drove her to distraction. Not to mention, you get four, six of them twitchy Gurtlser engines crammed up under each drive, and you'd be hard pressed to keep from asphyxiating the entire crew one of them bypass systems failed. She couldn't see no sense in it. Alliance had all the best that credits could buy, yet under all that shine weren't nothing but junk. But the engineers in charge hadn't much cared to hear what a seventeen year old "prairie harpy" had to say. In the end, they hadn't even gotten paid a fair wage, and Alliance credits didn't go nearly as far as platinum on Zephyr. Left a bad taste in her mouth, the whole thing, and her daddy had vowed then and there never to work for the Alliance if he could get by on his own.

No, what Kaylee loved were those old transport ships—some of them two, three decades or more past their supposed expiration date. She loved getting up inside them, seeing the marks each engineer had left on 'em, tweaking this, smoothing that. Made each of them unique, and even thought she'd never been up in a one of them, she'd learned half a dozen ways around just about every problem a spacer could face, just by working on the ships that came through Riverside each year, hauling cargo and passengers from one end of the 'verse to the other. Some were better than others, of course. She'd laughed when her daddy had made a point of showing her how the 80-10 was just an 80-04 with shiny new plating. The guts were all the same, made in the same factories, using the same parts as they always had. Folks snapped up whatever shiny new model come out and never seemed to pay no mind to what was under the hood half the time. It was a life-lesson, Ephram had said, and one she took to heart. It weren't the package that mattered, so much as the heart of a thing.

"I could show it to you..."

"Really?" she squealed, and Bester grinned.

"Hell, yeah. Always nice to meet a girl knows her engines, you know?"

"Won't your captain—won't he get mad?"

He shrugged. "Nah, he's shiny."

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and her eyes caressed the clean lines of the little freighter. It was just so... perfect. Oh, sure, she wasn't quite in the prime of her life. She had some scorch marks along her sides, and Kaylee could see where she'd been patched up a few times. But that just gave her character. Ship like that, it was a dream. She was suddenly fiercely jealous. Tomorrow, that little firefly would lift off, and Kaylee Frye would just go right back to her same old life, no surprises. No real challenges.

But for today... She could at least crawl around inside her, see all her guts and bits and pieces, and pretend.

"Shiny," she smiled as she took his arm and they started towards the firefly.

"Hello, Mister Reynolds. I trust by now you have received my package? I hope it wasn't too damaged in transport. You know my boys—they can get, how you say? A bit rowdy at times. Full of high spirits, my boys.

"I know, now—I went about it all wrong the last time. So, this? This is to fix. To make clear.

"I can find you, Mister Reynolds, any place you hide. I can reach any one of your people, any time I desire. I will start with your women and break them. Then I will have your men killed one by one. And you will be left alone. To suffer.

"This one? She is just the beginning."

Mal switched off the reader and took in the shocked and angry faces of his crew as they sat around the kitchen table. "I wanted you all to know what the deal was—what we're up against. Who did this. Y'all have that right, and I'm sorry I kept it from you this long."

"Where—how—" Wash asked, glancing back and forth between his wife and the captain.

"Came over the cortex when they—when we found her. Secure transmission. Untraceable."

"I wish you'd killed that méiyôu mûqin de xiao gôu when you had the chance." Inara had her arms wrapped around herself, and her dark eyes seemed pools of black, absorbing all the light.

"Well, I didn't exactly get the chance—he was a little too busy killing me at the time," Mal reminded her, but couldn't even conjure up a grim smile to try and soften the words.

River sat next to Simon and held one of his hands in both of her own. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he kept glancing back at the hatchway. Mal knew he didn't want to be here; he wanted to be down in the infirmary. It was in every line of his body. Mal could sympathise. He'd called everybody up here for this little town meeting and had to pry the preacher and the doc away from Kaylee's side.

Mal took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "You all can walk away from this."

"None of us are going anywhere, sir," Zoe said, her voice steady and even, and her words were met with nods and affirmatives from all assembled. Mal was actually a little surprised to see Jayne as angry as Zoe.

"Gorram bastards mess up one of our own, I say we show 'em how we treat húndàn who beat up little girls ain't got no quarrel with them. That's what I say."

"Jayne—This ain't the same as last time. Niska's powerful, and dangerous."

"Well, so am I."

"You had surprise on your side, going up against Niska on the skyplex." Mal hated playing devil's advocate, but someone had to. "This is different. He wants to pick us off, one by one."

"So what, we ruttin' let him? That's gôu pì. I ain't sitting around, waiting for that psycho to try and kill me in my gorram sleep."

"Don't see as how we have a lot of choice in the matter."

"So, what? We rabbit?" Jayne snarled, disdain dripping from each syllable.

Book stepped away from the wall, almost deadly calm as he locked eyes with Mal. "We run—he'll just keep coming."

"I'm all aware of that, Preacher."

"How'd he even find us to begin with?" Wash asked. He was almost shaking; Mal could see it. The two of them had barely escaped from Niska's clutches the last time, and he didn't need to ask Zoe to know that Wash still had nightmares about the tortures they'd endured on the Skyplex. "We've made a point of staying out of his way—"

"Only one who knew we'd be on Greenleaf was Badger, sir," Zoe said, her husband's hand still clutched in hers. "You think he sold us out?"

"I wouldn't put it past him. How 'bout we pay him a little call? After all, we did leave him high and dry on Greenleaf. Man's got to be wonderin' about his cargo. Deserves to get an answer, don't you think?"

He might not have been be ready to go up against Niska just yet. But if Badger had sicced Niska's dogs on them, well... Mal had no qualms about letting the fence know that business or not, he'd take some of his anguish out on the limey little bastard's hide.

Wash jumped up from the table, his chair scraping across the floor. "I'll lay in a course for Persephone."

"Then what?" Simon asked, his eyes boring into Mal's.

"Then I'm of a mind to go hunting."

"Captain Malcolm Reynolds."

"Ephram Frye."

"Please to meet you, sir."

The two men sized each other up about as subtly as two bucks about to lock horns. Mal stood at the end of Serenity's ramp, hands in his pockets, as his new mechanic and her folks stood still on the dirt side in the shadow of the hull. The girl was beaming, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, but her daddy was regarding Mal with the kind of gaze a man usually aimed at a fella asking for a daughter's hand in marriage—not offering her a job.

Made Mal feel all sorts of uncomfortable, and for the first time he wished he'd had the presence of mind to ask Bester where exactly he'd met his prairie harpy and how the hell old she was. In the dim light of the engine room, he'd had her pegged for Bester's own age: someone south of twenty-five, but still north of eighteen. But in the plain light of day, and a pair of cut-off coveralls with—was that a fuzzy little teddy bear? A gorram bear sewn over one knee, he suddenly wondered if this little gal was old enough to sleep over at a girlfriend's house, let alone go off-world with a strange crew she'd just met that afternoon.

"Kaywinnet tells me you're offering her a job," the man said calmly, his voice carrying the same lilt as the girl's had. The same accent Mal had grown up with on Shadow, which wasn't all that far from Zephyr, if the space between stars could be considered not far at all.

"Yes, sir. Serenity—that's my ship. Well, she could use a good mechanic, and from what little I seen, your girl is about the best mechanic I could find, even if I looked a hundred years. And that ain't me putting a shine on the truth, sir. Not one bit."

"What kind of work you do?"

"We haul cargo—passengers, too, when we can. I got a standard short-range shuttle I'm looking to rent out to bring in a bit of extra. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that work can be a bit scarce—but we work steady as a ship like ours can work. Got a job waiting for us on Paquin, matter of fact—we're two days late, thanks to my dāì ruò mù jī mechanic."

"Thought it was the secondary grav boot, when it weren't nothin' but the g-line gettin' tacked 'cause the reg couple was bad," girl said conspiratorially to her father, who nodded sagely.

"Now I don't know what that all means," Mal admitted with a smile. He'd seen her do it and still wasn't sure what she'd done. Even Bester had still seemed shell-shocked as he'd wandered off, duffel slung over his shoulder before the girl and her folks had shown up. "All I do know is that your daughter was kind enough to get us up and flying when no one else could. And that means she's just the sort I can count on to keep her in the sky. Job's hers, if she wants it."

"These fireflies are quite a favourite of smugglers, or so I hear," the girl's mother spoke up, and Mal saw that her green eyes held a shrewdness that he recognised. "What with all the little hideys."

Mal decided that honesty was the best policy. Girl had to know what she was signing onto, after all. "Truth be told, not all the work we get is legal. But I swear to you sir, ma'am—that legal or not, it's honest work. I won't run drugs or slaves, you have my word on that. I got no love for the Alliance—me and my first mate were both browncoats, fought in the war. But war is long behind us now, and all I want is to do an honest day's work, get paid, and keep my ship in the sky and my crew's bellies full. Mechanic's cut is ten percent, straight off the top, of any job."

"Bà bà—" the girl whispered, tugging on her father's arm as she shifted the bag on her shoulder. "It's a good job, better'n anything we've had—"

"Now Kaylee-bird, you just hush," her mother said, eyes still on Mal. Despite the freckles and frizzy ginger hair so different from the woman of his memory—it could have been his own mamma staring back at him in that gingham dress, crows feet around her eyes the only sign that age had touched her at all.

"It's her decision, and I expect she made it the second you asked her," Ephram finally said as he reached out to shake Mal's hand. "I just told her I had to meet you first, see what kind of man you are."

His handshake was firm—almost a little too firm, and he didn't let go of Mal's hand right off.

"This is my baby girl, Cap'n Reynolds. You look after her proper. Dong ma?"

"You've got my word, sir. I'll take good care of her." Mal hid a wince as best he could as Ephram's grip tightened briefly before her released his hand.

Mal stood beneath the stairs, in front of one of the infirmary windows, watching Simon with Kaylee. The doctor hadn't noticed him. Mal figured that was good. He'd gotten punched once already today.

He kept staring at the bandage on Kaylee's broken fingers. Picturing how cross she'd be once she woke up, not being able to hold a wrench properly. She's probably start bossing Book and Jayne around in her engine room. Mechanic-ing by remote. That would be a thing to see. A thing to see indeed.

Mal kept pretending that once she opened her eyes, everything would go back to normal.

"It isn't your fault," Inara said quietly from behind him.

He'd known she was there—heard her soft tread, smelled the sandalwood and lemon oil scent that clung to her gown from the incense she burned in her shuttle. Breathed deep the perfume of lily of the valley she used in her hair, so he didn't flinch when she spoke. They always seemed to find one another, when they needed to. To talk things out. Yell and scream. Sit and joke. He could count on two hands the number of times it had happened in the last year; but it always did happen. Sure as summer rain.

"The hell it isn't," Mal said as they started up the stairs. He was leading her back towards her shuttle, and he knew she knew it. "Simon blames me. I'm surprised you don't."

Her fingers plucked at his elbow, forcing him to stop halfway across the catwalk to her door. "I know you—you had to leave that medicine in Paradiso. You couldn't not, not after you saw the plight of those settlers—"

"Don't have a thing to do with Paradiso," Mal said simply. "It has everything to do with going into business with Niska and his like in the first place."

Her lips parted in surprise at his admission, and she followed as he walked her back to her door.

"I knew what he was; knew what he was capable of. I was the one who put us in this situation, dealing with the likes of him. It's my fault Kaylee was—it's my fault."

"While there are many things in the universe that I could blame you for—and do—I can't blame you for the fact that Niska is an evil bastard. You paid him. You paid him five times over. This is about an old man struggling to hang onto the bloody shreds of his reputation. He did this. Not you."

Don't make it any less my fault, Mal wanted to say, but didn't.

He sat down heavily on the end of her bed, staring at the shuttle floor rather than meeting her eyes. Her forgiveness was worse, in a way, than if she had blamed him. The way she looked at him, like she wanted to comfort him, made everything a thousand times worse.

"I made a choice, taking smuggling jobs—putting this crew in the line of fire. It has always been all about me. I'd rather be on the wrong side of law just to stick it to the gorram Alliance—and I've treated it like a game. But it ain't no game. Wash almost paid the price with his life, and you think I woulda learned my lesson after dying my own self. I had no right to make that choice for Kaylee. No right at all, and now... Girl trusted me, Inara. Trusted me to keep her safe, and I put her in harm's way."

"Mal, Kaylee knew. She knew when she signed on this 'boat'—if I know anything about you, it's that you made sure she knew your business before you ever took her on. But she chose to be here—on Serenity. She chose to follow you of her own free will."

"She didn't choose to be beaten and raped, Inara," he said, trying to shake her. Rattle what was left of her composure.

It was the first time he'd actually said the words. "Sexually assaulted," Simon had said; as if that somehow made it less... horrific. Less a brutal act of cowardice and hatred than it was. But rape was an ugly word for an ugly thing. And he wanted to lash out—at the men who'd done this, at Niska, at himself for letting it happen in the first place.

Inara was just the closest available target.

"No," she said softly, mask still in place. "No woman does. And it's horrific, there is no denying that. But it happens. It happens every day. Every hour."

"How can you be so gorram cold—"

"Because I'm a woman," she said simply, cutting him off. "It's a fear that almost all of us are born with, and the 'verse is full of bastards who will take advantage of that."

Her resolve crumbled, tears finally springing to her eyes. "I'm not cold, Mal. God, I wish I could be. Then maybe this wouldn't hurt so much."

Mal pulled her into an embrace, resting his chin on top of her head as she cried herself out. His head swam, enveloped by the rich scent of lily of the valley as her shoulders shook beneath his hands.

"Why did it have to be Kaylee?" she said, voice cracked with strain. "Why couldn't it have been... God, I wish I'd—"

"Don't. Don't say it. It ain't ever gonna be you, or River, or Kaylee. Not ever again. Not any of us."

He whispered lies—reassurances, nonsense—into her hair, his own eyes burning as her tears scalded his neck. Finally just holding her.

After a few minutes, she pulled back and drew in deep and shuddering breaths. Her carefully applied makeup was gone, and he'd forgotten how young she was, underneath all that paint. How vulnerable. For a split second, he had a horrifying vision of finding her crumpled against the side of Serenity's hull, and his hands shook as he dropped them to his sides.

If she noticed, she didn't let it show. She wiped at her cheeks with the heels of her hands, and sniffled.

"I—I'm sorry."

"Why? For being human? For being Kaylee's friend, and hurting? Ain't nothing to be apologising about."

He let his hand rest for a moment longer than it should on her bare shoulder, let himself fall into those dark eyes just a touch more than was wise, before he broke contact.

"Inara, I want you to take Simon, River, and Kaylee while she's on the mend in your shuttle until—until this whole thing is sorted out one way or another."

"There's a Companion Guild House on Bernadette, only a day out from Persephone," she said, mask slipping back into place, even without the paint. "It's small, and I know the house mistress there—I trust her. Simon and River would be safe there. And the house has medical facilities with equipment Simon doesn't have access to here, and there are staff trained to treat... There are people who can help Kaylee."

"Contact her," he said as he started towards the door.

"What about you?" she called after him.

"I'm gonna find Niska and put him down like the dog that he is. I promise you."

Mal didn't even climb down the rungs of the ladder to his bunk, just slid on the sides of his boots. They'd had a good day. Picked up a cache of foodstuffs and medical supplies from a derelict freighter, and Capshaw was being uncommonly generous in regards to their cut of the take. Zoe and Wash were making noise about taking a proper honeymoon, Jayne was making noise about getting a new knife since he'd lost his last one when the guy it had been stuck in fell off that damn cliff on Whitefall, and Mal had gotten word that morning from a surveyor and his wife on Boros interested in renting the spare shuttle. Best of all, Serenity was humming along, in better shape than she'd ever been—certainly since he'd picked her up for a song from the scrap yard on Persephone.

All in all, one of his best days ever, come to think of it.

He sat down on the end of his bed to unlace his boots, whistling a little tune—perhaps a touch off-key, but it didn't much matter to Mal if he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, so long as he could shoot straight. He had the first boot off and was going for the second when suddenly there were hands on his shoulders.

There was a squawk of surprise as he spun, drawing his weapon and pinning his attacker to the bed in one smooth motion. Took a second for him to register that the barrel was pressed to the temple of his brand new mechanic, who was huddled beneath the bedclothes, eyes wide.

"Kaylee, what the hell—"

That was about as far as he got, as she just sorta arched her back and lifted her head a little and kissed him full on the mouth.

It was enthusiastic, and not without skill, Mal noted with the part of his brain that wasn't concentrating on how to extricate himself from this situation without her daddy coming after him with a shotgun, but not what he was either expecting or wanting.

"Whoa! Hey!" He let go of both her wrists, which had been pinned over her head, and the gun, which slipped between the mattress and the wall and sat up. He held up his hands as if in surrender. "That is about enough of that!"

Her shoulders were bare, and he saw her clothes were folded neatly atop her shoes next to the bed. Her long light brown hair spilled over her shoulders as she clutched the coverlet up to her neck.

"I don't know what notion you got floating around up there in that head of yours, but I didn't hire you for a roll in the hay. I hired you to keep this ship in the air."

"Oh I know that!" She laughed, and grinned at him. "I didn't mean—I know you're a good man, Captain. It's what I like so much about you. You're good, and kind, and handsome—"

"You'll turn my head with talk like that."

"Well y'are!" She grinned, and then flushed. "And, well, I like you."

"And I like you too."

"I mean, I like you like you."

"Oh."

He quickly went over the last few weeks in his mind and tried to figure out if he'd been giving his pretty little mechanic any reason to believe he was a lecherous hump who chased after girls near half his age. What he discovered is that while he was pretty damn sure he'd been a proper gentleman, she had been awful shy around him—coy even—the last few days.

"And I thought, maybe, with us all liking each other, we might have some fun is all." She shrugged, and Mal glanced away as the blanket started to slip, showing a bit too much pale white shoulder.

Well, son of a bitch. It had been a few decades since he'd been in the pulling gals' pigtails-mode of courtship, but he imagined that it hadn't been near so long for Kaylee Frye. And thinking back on how he met her in the first place, stood to reason that the girl was used to a certain level of companionship.

"No offence, but I like models with a few more years on 'em."

She got puffed up with all sorts of righteous indignation at that, just like he knew she would. "I'm eighteen!"

"And I haven't been eighteen for a good long while now. Now," he bent down and picked up her clothes and tossed them to her, quickly glancing away as she let the coverlet drop so she could catch the bundle, "as flattering as this little crush is—and don't get me wrong, it's flattering as hell and if I weren't who I am then there wouldn't be a whole lot of talking going on right now so much as shucking of clothes and some stuff that would be improper to speak on in front of a lady—this ain't right. This is just all sorts of not right, is what it is. Dong ma?"

"Now, you want to tell me what this little attempt at seduction is really all about?" he asked once she'd gotten the shirt on over her head, and was doing all sorts of things under the blanket regarding her pants.

She glanced away, biting her bottom lip.

Mal decided to take another tack. "How long since we left Zephyr?"

"'Bout a month."

"And this is the longest you ever been away from home, isn't it?"

"Maybe," she mumbled, looked flushed and every inch her age.

"And you know it may be months and months fore we get back there?"

She nodded, and looked positively miserable. Mal kicked himself for not noticing it sooner. But the first few weeks, she'd been so busy overhauling the engine, and seemed happy as a pig in shit to be up to her eye-teeth in parts and electrical systems and the like. She'd seemed to have adjusted to living on board like it was all some grand adventure. But he was guessing now that things had settled into more of a routine, and some of the shiny had worn off, that she was starting to pine for familiar sights, voices, and the like.

He'd never thought of himself as having a fondness for strays, but the ship had felt a lot more... a lot more like a home since he'd picked up the little mechanic. Looked it, too—she'd taken to stencilling flowers on the bare yellow walls of the mess and, with the leftover paint, had made a ridiculous sign she'd posted on the door to her bunk. And that was just fine by him. But as homey as Serenity had become, nothing could take the place of the home you came from.

"Little Kaylee, there ain't nothing wrong with being homesick," he said, giving her a brief one-armed hug. "Hell, I ain't been home since—well, I ain't been home for a real long time, and that don't mean I don't wake up in the middle of the night every once in a while, missing home and my mamma something fierce."

"You do not," she groused, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Do too—cross my heart and hope Jayne dies."

She giggled despite herself.

"You got a big family, don't you," he asked, knowing before she nodded that it must be true. He'd only ever met her folks, but she had the feel of the baby of a great big brood.

"Two sisters and three brothers, my folks, my mom's folks, and a whole mess of aunts and uncles and cousins on both sides all spittin' distance from one another pretty much. Oh, and nieces and nephews 'course."

"Of course." Mal couldn't help but grin. His guess was, they started young on Zephyr. "Sounds like Sunday dinners at the Frye house were somethin'."

"Mamma had Grams to help her out—and most times Pop and the boys would catch a mess of fish down at the river, and everybody would bring somethin', so no one ever went hungry." She smiled at the memory, and her eyes were suddenly bright with unshed tears. He imagined that after a few weeks of moulded protein in every colour of the rainbow, and drinking recycled water and breathing recycled air, those Sunday dinners might be taking on a particularly rosy hue right about now.

"How 'bout you?" she asked, covering her sudden attack of being eighteen as best she could with the good humour he was coming to associate with her.

"Only child."

Her eyes were wide, as if the concept was completely alien.

"What about cousins?"

"Not a one. You are looking at the last of the Reynolds line."

"But you'll get married and have kids—"

He laughed. He couldn't help it. The idea of him settled down someplace with a biddable little wife—or in his case, some Amazon with a sawed off shotgun—and a passel of rugrats was just too much for him for a moment. He recovered quick, not wanting to hurt Kaylee's feelings. "Don't know about that. Maybe. Hell, I suppose anything can happen. Sure."

"Family's important."

"Sure is," he agreed. "It's where you come from."

"More'n that. You do for family, that's what my daddy always says. It's about having folks what do for you, and folks you look after."

"I expect that's true. I always kinda wanted a little sister, truth be told."

"Yeah?" she asked, her nose crinkling as she smiled.

"Yeah. So, 'mèimei,' how's about you get yourself off to your own bed now, dong ma?" He gave her a stern look, which only made her giggle.

"Hao de, Cap'n." She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and then scampered up the ladder.

If they ever ran out of fuel cells, Mal was pretty sure they could just plug Kaylee in to power Serenity. He'd never seen a body to quick to shake off sorrow and return to her natural state of shining.

Mal sat there, chuckling to himself as he bent down to get his other boot off.

Badger choked as Mal's boot pressed harder on his throat.

"—on't—-cking know—cho—"

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Badger drew in a tortured breath as Reynolds lifted his foot and released the pressure on his windpipe. Big Teddy was on his back next to the door, Reynolds's mercenary had his gun trained on him and looked itching to plug somebody full of holes. Carl sat at his desk in the adjacent room, cradling his elbow and whimpering in pain from the gunshot wound that had sent his revolver spinning across the floor. Badger eyed it carefully—trying to gauge the distance and see if he could make a grab for it.

"I don't know a thing about it, you rutting psycho!" he spat between wheezing gasps as he scuttled backwards across the floor until his back hit the wooden desk.

He glared at Reynolds, who just stood there in the centre of the room, arms crossed. "You come into my place of business, guns blazing—"

"Yeah, about that," Mal cut him off. "I would have thought you'd have been happy to see us, since we missed the meet this morning. You know, all worried as to why your boys didn't find us at the docks. That is, if they even bothered to show up."

Badger froze, all his hasty attempts at righteous indignation fleeing as a cold sweat broke out across his brow. He stared deep into the barrel of Zoe's shotgun, which seemed to loom impossibly large in front of him.

"One of my crew got snatched on Greenleaf," Mal continued, deceptively calm. "My mechanic. Last time you saw her, she was in a pink fluffy dress, bow in her hair. Cute as a gorram bug. Niska's men tore her up pretty bad, and as you are the only person who knew we were gonna be on Greenleaf..."

"Now, let's be reasonable here—" Badger held up both hands in a gesture of placation and bit back a gasp as Reynolds grabbed him by the lapels of his suit jacket and hauled him roughly to his feet.

"I think I'm being plenty reasonable. And I'm thinking might be reasonable to let Jayne here cut off your family jewels and feed them to you."

The mercenary smiled as he pulled out his knife, and Badger licked his lips and tried to wriggle free of Reynolds's grasp.

"I didn't have no choice! Niska's a powerful man! It ain't good business to make an enemy like that—"

"But making an enemy of me is wise, is that it?" Cold blue eyes very close to his made Badger swallow nervously. "Don't seem too wise at the moment, now does it?"

"Man's reputation suffered, once word got 'round you and your crew'd tore up his Skyplex. It ain't exactly a secret that you and your crew do jobs for me—they came looking, what was I supposed to do?"

"So, zôugôu that you are, you sold us out."

"I'm a businessman, Captain. Hard to do business when you've got your throat slit."

"Yes. I 'spect it would be," Jayne said, eyeing the edge of his blade.

"I got to think of myself first, you see?" Badger said quickly.

"I see. I see clear as day. So, in the interests of you continuing to do business, hows about you tell us where we might find Niska and his boys?"

Part III

They'll tell you that the pain will go away and time will heal all wounds and that everything will be all right.

It's not all lies.

Zoe stared out the flight deck ports at the stars. Wash had set the autopilot, and she would join him in bed. But she'd wanted to sit and watch the worlds go by first.

She'd grown up on ships. Never spent more than a day or two planetside before the war. Her daddy had been a supply ship's captain, running cargo from world to world. Her mamma was an engineer and a damned good one. Uncle Marcus had been their pilot. He'd been an honorary uncle, just like half that twelve-man crew had become Zoe's family from the second she'd been born, her and her brothers and sisters. The other half of the crew had actually been blood-kin. By the time she was seven, she'd had five or six cousins to play with, grow up with, train to fly the shuttles, patch the electrical systems and patch each other up in the infirmary.

Marcus had married, and they'd hired on a new pilot. The wedding feast had lasted four days and had culminated with her mamma giving Marcus back his share of the ship in platinum, and then some—so he could put a down payment on a freighter of his own. That was what you did. Those were the rules of the society she'd grown up in. Everyone was precious, because when it came down to it, you depended on one another for your own survival. Everyone knowing how to shunt the main E-Cee to the back-up system in case of a burn-out meant you weren't asphyxiated in your sleep. Everyone knowing how to pilot a shuttle meant there was always a way out. And everyone knowing how to make moulded protein into a meal that you could at least swallow without gagging... well, that was something too. Everyone did their part, and when they celebrated, it was as a family. And when they grieved, it was as a family.

They had been a family—until the Alliance had tried to conscript them. Tried to force them to give up their home, their ship, their livelihood to run Alliance supplies during the first year of the war. They'd done it to dozens of independent freighter captains, and like many before him, her daddy had run. Straight out to the Rim. They'd gotten caught, finally. Gotten their ship taken from them. Zoe had joined up after her daddy had died—brought up on charges by the Alliance and thrown into a detainment camp where he'd gotten pneumonia and died by inches.

"Who else knows?" she asked when she heard the footfall on the metal grate behind her.

Mal came up behind her, laid a hand on her shoulder. "Knows what?"

"That they didn't just beat her." She leaned back in the chair and met his eyes. His gaze was steady—and haunted.

"Inara," he said after a long pause. "And I think it's fair to say that whatever Simon knows, River knows too."

"Poor kid. Poor kids," she corrected with a sigh. "You gonna tell the others?"

"They're hurting enough as it is."

Ain't gonna do any good, keeping it a secret. She bit her tongue before the words could slip out. But they echoed in her mind anyway. She knew—knew from a life lived aboard small ships with small crews—it would just make the hurt fester. Just make it hurt more, when they did find out.

"Don't stay up too late. Got a big day, tomorrow." He withdrew his hand and left her alone with the 'verse.

She stared out at the stars that were one of her earliest memories and thought about the family she'd been born into, and the family she'd chosen.

It wasn't that Jayne was ashamed of his family. He wasn't.

But, the first day they'd met, he'd lied to her. When Kaylee'd asked if he had any family, and Jayne had said not really. His mamma would have kicked his ass, but he'd wanted to sound all tough. Like a loner. He'd gotten pretty lucky with that act in the past. Good girls who liked bad boys, and all.

She'd just looked so sad, and patted him on the arm, and he figured it musta been working. Not that he was exactly looking for a pity hump. But she was a pretty little thing, and her being part of the crew gave Jayne the notion that maybe this gig wouldn't be so bad after all.

In the month since Mal had kicked Bester out on his incompetent stoner ass, though, she hadn't shown much interest in bunking with him. He'd seen her get all googly-eyed over the captain, and he figured that was that, until Mal had started callin' her little sis and all. So, barring any weird kinks, Jayne figured that meant he still was in the running.

However, as Jayne stared at the giant paper-wrapped box with his name scrawled across it, he knew his lie had been blown. The jig was up. He was screwed.

"Well, aren't ya gonna open it?" Kaylee poked him in the ribs. "C'mon, Jayne!"

"Might be a bomb or somethin'."

They'd stopped off on Persephone to check in with Badger on a job. Eavesdown was partying late into the night, it being New Year's and all. Year of the Cat or somesuch. Jayne never did pay much mind to what day it was out in the black. Only day he gave a hump about was payday. But Kaylee was in high spirits, as she'd convinced Mal to let them do a lion dance for the ship.

He'd hefted her up on his shoulders so she could hang the "bait"—a sad looking cabbage and some oranges that were hard as rocks she'd found in the mess—from the cargo bay doors. She'd giggled as he'd weaved, pretending she was heavier than she was and miming dropping her before she'd secured the line.

Mal had even come down to watch as five boys in a ragged red and gold cloth and tin-foil lion get-up had come and the firecrackers had been so loud Jayne had almost reached for his gun. But Kaylee had clapped and squealed like a little kid. Afterwards, they'd sat around the kitchen table with the first jug of engine room hooch Kaylee had cooked up using her brand new intra-engine fermentation system. Tasted a lot like berry wine, but Jayne realised after his third mug that it packed a lot more punch.

He was half in the bag already when the kid showed up with the post. Mail call was rare. Being on the move so much, you could never really count on anything find you 'less you told somebody right where you was gonna be, with enough time for them to get it there when you were gonna be there. Jayne had been shocked when the big box had his name on it.

"Who'd send you a bomb?" Kaylee asked as he set the box on the table and pulled out his knife to poke it.

"Anyone who's ever met him?" Wash asked, then ducked Jayne's only half-serious swing at his head.

"We could use the scanner in the infirmary to be sure," she said, trying to be helpful. But he'd recognised the writing on the package and knew damn well who it was from, and what was in it.

He ripped away the paper and opened the box. Sure enough, his mamma had been knitting again.

"Oh!" Kaylee squealed as he lifted out a red hand-knit sweater. "How pretty!"

There was a card tucked amongst its folds, which fell to the cargo bay floor. Jayne made a grab for it, but Kaylee was quicker.

"Who's it from?" she asked as she handed him the card, which he opened.

"Nobody," he grumbled, scanning the letter quickly.

"Just sound out the words with more than two syllables, big guy," Wash said from the safety of Zoe's arms. "C'mon, we'll all pullin' for you. You can do it!"

"I'm gonna pull you—"

"Oh, it's from your mamma," Kaylee cooed as she read over Jayne's shoulder, and Jayne stuffed the sweater back into the box. "That's so sweet! Did she make it her own self?"

"Hey! That there is private!"

"You never told me you still had folks. Oh, Jayne, you gotta try it on!"

"Later," he muttered, but Kaylee was positively glowing. And not just from the wine.

He found her later on, after the dinner dishes had been done. Mal had wandered off to check the cortex for answers to the ad he'd placed about the second shuttle, and Zoe and Wash had gone to their quarters all giddy and sickeningly sweet as to make Jayne's teeth ache. She was in the engine room, on her back beneath the engine, fiddling with something.

"Should you be doin' that?" he asked, crouching down next to her knees.

"Doin' what?" came the voice from beneath the spinning engine.

"Workin' on the engine while intox—toxica—drunk."

"I ain't drunk."

"You are too drunk. I seen you drink a whole lot of that berry wine."

"Doesn't mean I'm drunk," she chirped, sliding out and getting to her feet. "And anyway, if I don't shunt the—oh!"

She'd finally noticed he'd put on his mamma's new sweater, and her face just lit up with a grin. She had her grubby coveralls pulled up over the red and gold tank top she'd been wearing earlier, and her hair was twisted up into two little buns on either side of her head to keep it from gumming up the works.

"There. See?" He gave a little half-turn, arms stretched out to keep his balance, since he'd had rather a bit more wine than Kaylee had. "Fits."

"It's shuài!"

"My mamma does good work."

"Xin Nian kuai le," she said with a grin and got up on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek.

He moved his head so that her lips landed on his mouth instead. She made a squeak of surprise as he pinned her against the wall, and next thing he knew, he was laid out on the floor of the engine room, clutching the side of his head.

Kaylee had both hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide. "Oh no, you're bleeding!"

"'Course I'm bleeding, you just hit me with—what the hell did you hit me with?"

"It's just a wrench. I didn't mean to hit you so hard!"

"What'd ya hafta go and do that for?'

"Well you was the one with the roaming hands all of a sudden, mister!" She scowled at him even as she pressed a rag to his head to try and stop the flow. Head wounds bled like a son of a bitch, though. He could already feel the hot wet trickle of blood down his neck and seeping into the fabric of his tee-shirt beneath the sweater. "Does it hurt?" she asked, biting her lip.

"'Course it hurts. You hit me. With a wrench," he grumbled. "You didn't hafta hit me."

"Well, you took me by surprise is all! All grabby and lips outta nowhere like that. Oh, I think it's gonna need stitching. I'll go wake up Zoe—"

"Ain't nothin'," he said quickly, not too thrilled at the idea of what Zoe or the captain would say once they found out why he had a head wound in the first place.

"Oh, I'm so sorry—is it your sweater all ruined?"

He looked down, and saw that the collar and shoulder were now a darker red than the rest of the yarn. "Naw. Good thing my mamma made it red."

She laughed and then winced in sympathy as she helped him to his feet and he swayed.

"You're going straight to the infirmary, mister," she said, all gruff, like she wasn't so tiny he could lift her with one hand. He swore she actually felt bad about hitting him, and that just made him feel like a low down dirty dog for pulling what he tried to pull in the first place.

Of course, that didn't stop him from making a grab for her ass, as they navigated the stairs down to the infirmary. But after she hip-checked him into the metal railing, he figured maybe the captain was right about one thing.

Little Kaylee was definitely the little sister type.

Simon was keeping vigil. He was curled up on his side on the bed built into the wall of the infirmary, trying to will his eyes to stay open despite utter exhaustion that made his arms and legs feel leaden. He kept staring at Kaylee, who lay unmoving on the examination table, pale beneath the bruises which just got uglier with each passing hour.

He'd seen family do this in the hospital. Wives, sons, parents—loved ones dozing in chairs in the ICU or curled up on spare beds when there were spare beds to be had. He remembered feeling compassion for them as he passed them on rounds or accidentally woke them when he came to read charts, check vitals, all the other things a doctor did for dozens of patients every day. He'd seen, but he'd never truly understood until now. He wished to God he didn't.

He was waiting for her to wake once the smoother had worn off. Waiting for her to wake, so he could ask her the questions he needed to ask her. The things he couldn't tell, just by cataloguing the damage. Things he desperately wished he didn't need to know.

Waiting to see if her spirit had been as broken as her body.

River had brought him some rice and cider earlier, her dark eyes shadowed as she'd reached out to carefully brush Kaylee's cheek with her fingertips and whisper in her ear. Simon had eaten slowly, trying to settle his stomach. He didn't remember actually tasting the food, and the cider sat untouched in a mug on the counter. River had kissed his forehead, and tucked the blanket over him before she had gone off to bed. He could only imagine what this must be like for her.

He'd been unwilling to believe that his sister could actually be a reader. He'd spent months chalking up her uncanny insights to her just being... River. His baby sister. A genius, bratty, wonderful seventeen-year-old girl. Even in the face of undeniable proof, he just couldn't bring himself to admit that whatever the Academy might have done to her would make such a thing possible. As a doctor, as a scientist, as a brother, it all just seemed impossible. And the truth was, he didn't want it to be possible. All he wanted in the world was for River to just be a kid. To help her become the girl he'd known again. And accepting that she could be so different meant accepting that she would never again be the sister he remembered.

But if it was true, that made her a victim of the thoughts and emotions of everyone around her. The thought of her bearing the weight of all his pain and worry in addition to her own, not to mention the rest of Serenity's inhabitants... He remembered, now, River waking screaming when they had found the derelict hit by reavers. He shuddered, drawing the blanket closer around him, thinking of what sorts of nightmares she must have—would have—once Kaylee woke up.

He worried more about what sorts of nightmares Kaylee would have.

He'd had a few of his own, in the brief snatches of sleep he'd caught when he couldn't keep his eyes open long enough to stave them off. Worst-case scenarios that played like horror vids across the inside of his eyes every time they drifted close, bringing him back to waking in a cold sweat, his hands balled into fists, nails cutting half-moons into his palms.

He saw the captain's face at the window and silently slid off the bed, folding the blanket over the back of his chair.

"How she doing?" Mal said, his voice pitched low despite the fact that Simon had closed the infirmary doors behind him.

"I've got her heavily sedated. She's going to be in a lot of pain when she wakes up and the pain block wears off."

Understatement of the century, a little voice inside Simon's head mocked him.

"Badger gave us a lead on Niska," Mal said, and just hearing the name made Simon's blood run cold. "I talked to Inara—we're heading to Bernadette. There's a guild house there, run by a gal she trusts. They got medical facilities. Inara'll take you, your sister, and Kaylee in her shuttle once we reach orbit."

"I want to go with you," Simon said, and Mal's eyes drifted past him to the infirmary doors.

"When she wakes up, she'll need you."

"You said they have medical facilities. They'll have doctors—"

"When she wakes up, she'll need you. Not because you're a doctor."

There was a kindness in Mal's eyes when they met his, and Simon swallowed his intended reply. The bruise on the captain's cheek was a purple smudge, and as furious as he had been in the moment he'd given it to him, seeing it now made Simon wince in sympathy.

"And anyway," Mal continued, "if anything happened to you, she'd have my hide. Here." He handed Simon two ident badges. River's face stared up at him from the small plastic card which bore the name Jiàn Li. "In case something happens to us, you and your sister're gonna need these."

"Where did you—"

"Badger's got some good forgers. And he owes us."

"Mal—"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I hit you."

"We'll arrive at Bernadette in the morning, about oh-nine-hundred. You get some rest. Can't help Kaylee if you're dead on your feet."

Simon had been off-world before. He'd taken day trips to other core planets. Gone hiking with his Medacad roommate on Ariel, attended the theatre in Capital City on Poseidon with his parents in his teens. He'd spent two months, between Medacad and his residency, working in a clinic on Tiantán.

Nothing in his life thus far had prepared him for the absolute chaos of Eavesdown Docks on Persephone.

He'd arrived on a transport shuttle that morning and met with two men he knew only as Michaels and Nelson—aliases, he was sure—in a dusty warehouse on the edge of town. He'd handed over the bag of platinum for which he'd exchanged almost every last credit he had without a thought, his eyes fixed on the silver-grey stasis module sitting almost haphazardly among the cargo in one corner of the cavernous building. He'd wanted to open it right there and then; make sure that this all hadn't been some sham. But it would be another seven days before the drugs would wear off and it would be safe for River to emerge.

By then, Simon hoped to be at the other end of the galaxy.

"There's a man waiting for you on Boros," Michaels had said as he'd tucked the bag into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a flimsy with a set of co-ordinates and time, which he handed to Simon. No names. He was getting used to that, finally, after three years. "Got ident cards for the both of you—so you can start a new life."

"Thank you," Simon had said, no knowing what else to say, continuing to look past the tall blond stranger to stare at the box that was his one lone possession left in this world. "Thank you so much—"

They had turned and walked out, the transaction complete. Their end of the bargain held up. And Simon had been left alone in the storage facility, his luggage and medkit at his feet.

Now, he looked over the row of ships of every shape and size—none of them Alliance. Alliance vessels docked at the spaceport, an enormous structure of steel and glass and cool white plastic walls half a mile east. When the morning haze had burned off, Simon could see the building in the distance, the sun glaring off its windows.

Eavesdown docks, on the other hand, were mainly for cargo ships. Of the seven ships displaying Boros as their destinations, only three were taking on passengers. Paragon had a cluster of Alliance feds a little too close to it for Simon's comfort, and Brutus wouldn't land on Boros until four days after his scheduled rendezvous with the forger.

So he found himself reading the screen in front of a disreputable little midbulk firefly-class transport called Serenity with 12 berths available. It wasn't leaving for another hour, but it was going straight to Boros and thus far no other passengers had signed on. It had the added advantage of being cheap. He'd paid three times as much for his trip from Ariel to Persephone, and he was running low on credits. He hadn't accessed his accounts since he'd left Osiris, worried that they would be able to track him through his credit accounts. He'd cleaned out a separate account he'd set up before he'd left Osiris, and had paid in cash for everything from food to lodgings ever since.

"You headed to Boros?" came a voice, and Simon looked up to see a girl a little older than River sitting in a lawn chair set out in front of the ship, a yellow wooden and paper parasol leaning against its side.

She wore a peacock blue embroidered silk jacket over a pair of dingy coveralls and her light brown hair was twisted up off her neck. She was holding a paper boat with four guo-tie in it, a set of plastic disposable chopsticks still in their wrapper held against its side with one small pink thumb as she used her other hand to tuck stray wisps of hair behind her ears.

"Yes," he said, startled at her wide smile. No one else he'd met since he left Ariel the night before had smiled at him. Not like this. It seemed absolutely genuine—he wasn't used to people smiling at him like they meant it. "Yes—I am."

"Well, we've got plenty of room, and Serenity here is the smoothest ride from here to Boros."

She popped one of the dumplings into her mouth and giggled as the juice from the pork ran down her chin, which she dabbed at with her fingers to catch it before it could hit her shirt. Before he realised what he was doing, he had pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

"Xièxie—xièxie nî," she said once she'd swallowed and almost daintily wiped her mouth with the square of silk. "Is it just you, then? Or you got a wife or family coming along—"

"Just me," he said quickly. "I have some cargo stored in town—"

"Oh, well, cargo we's used to." She jumped up and ran over to the ramp. She pressed a button on the side of a comm just inside the door. "Hey, Wash? We got a passenger with some cargo—hey," she called over to Simon, "will it fit on the back of a mule?"

"I believe—yes."

"Yeah, Wash, it can go on the mule. You wanna come down and go pick it up?"

"Shìde, Kaylee. Be right down," came the static-laden reply.

"Shiny," the girl smiled and handed Simon back his handkerchief before she picked up her lunch and sat back down. "We'll be ready to go soon as our captain gets back—is your stuff far?"

"It's just across town."

"Wash'll get it brought round for you quick as anything, don't you worry, mister...?"

"Simon. My name's Simon," he said as he folded the silk and tucked it back in his pocket before extending his hand.

"Gāxìng jìandào nî." She shook his hand, her grip firm. "I'm Kaylee—ship's mechanic, and this here," she turned as a man in orange coveralls, his blond hair sticking up every which way came trooping down the ramp, "is our pilot, Wash. Wash, this is Simon—we're takin' him to Boros. Um..." She turned back to him with a charming smile, suddenly shy. "We are, aren't we?"

He hadn't actually said that yes, he was booking passage, and suddenly it was being treated as a fait accompli. It made him feel slightly dizzy, like he was caught up in a whirlwind. One, he suspected, with a charming smile. Simon wanted to stammer a denial—something. Anything. But try as he might, he couldn't actually dredge up a decent reason not to book passage on the little firefly. It was going where he needed to go, it seemed safe enough, and...

The girl—Kaylee—continued smiling at him, looking hopeful.

He couldn't think of a good enough reason.

Jayne didn't say anything when Shepherd Book came over to the weight bench.

He just kept lifting the barbell over his head, ignoring straining muscles and tendons. He'd lost count of how many reps he'd done. It just gave him something to do—something to keep his mind off... everything. Arms and neck ached, muscles burning with exertion, but he'd kept at it. He welcomed the pain, the simple oblivion of the mindlessness of it. Didn't require no thought, working out. He could push all the thoughts away and narrow his focus down to one simple thing. Like breathing.

His shirt was soaked through with sweat, which stung his eyes as he sat up.

"I just came to see how you were doing," Book said, and Jayne gave him a sharp look.

"Walkin' and talkin'. I'm just fine. Can't say the same for Badger, though. Little bastard just about pissed himself. It was entertainin', almost."

"The captain was right. It won't be like the last time, you know," Book said almost conversationally as Jayne gave up the weight bench and moved to spot. Preacher didn't even change the weights. Over the last few months, it had become kinda a routine—a game, even—between them. Book couldn't work as long as Jayne could, but he worked as hard. Jayne didn't think he'd ever seen an old guy as cut as Book. Made him wonder what the preacher was 'fore he became a preacher, sometimes. Man had tracking skills and knew far too much about crime as any clergy had a right to know.

Next to Kaylee, who pretty much thought the best of everybody until she was proven dead wrong, Book was the closest thing he had to a friend on this boat, and that was a spooky thought in and of itself. No one ever seemed to give a damn about what Jayne thought or felt or did—unless it was to kick his ass about it. 'Cept Book.

Zoe had Wash, and when Mal was in a mood to be sociable, he more often went to Inara's shuttle or presided over the dinner table like some damn lord, master of all he surveyed. The doc and his sister kept more to themselves, though that had changed a fair bit once the doc and Kaylee started getting it on. But him and the doc never had quite worked out their little scraps, and Jayne was in no hurry to. Doc set his teeth on edge too much—not to mention there was too much between them now thanks to the Ariel job to ever make them anything even approaching friends.

But Book was different. The shepherd seemed to actually enjoy his company. That was something Jayne had never expected. And he found, some nights, he actually went looking for the preacher his own self. Not to make any kind of confession, of course. Jayne had been raised most as what his granny would have called a Godless heathen on a good day, godforsaken bastard on another. But it was nice to have someone who didn't look down on him like he was scum all the time. Book talked to him like he was, if not an equal exactly, then at least somebody worth talking to.

"A man like Adelei Niska," Book began, not moving to start his workout yet—just talking, like Jayne and him were sitting at dinner instead of in the hold near the dead of night, "he couldn't understand why we came after the Captain, because he can't conceive of that kind of loyalty with no basis in fear. His men follow him—respect him—because they fear him. But Malcolm Reynolds' crew came after him because they love him."

"Hold it now, Preacher. Never said anything about love—"

"And he has to realise that the captain would do the same for any of his crew. He's got to know we'll come after him. But even if we didn't, he can pick us off one by one. Either way, he holds all the cards."

"This ain't no ruttin' card game."

"We could turn him over to the Feds. I'm sure there's plenty of lawmen be glad to collar a criminal of his standing."

"Can't. We'd get pinched."

Shepherd's brows drew together in a frown. "With Simon and River safe on Bernadette—"

"Don't have nothin' to do with them two fugies." Jayne shook his head. "We try and turn Niska in for what he did to Kaylee, and they'd say 'Why?' And we'd say 'Revenge.' And they'd say 'Why?' And we'd say ''Member that train job in Paradiso?' We'd get pinched.''

Book seemed to be collating that particular bit of data, his eyes focused on something far away. Something Jayne couldn't see. "So we take the law into our own hands?"

"The law and justice ain't the same thing at all," Jayne said, a grim smile playing with the corners of his mouth. "And what I plan to do to that man—that's justice, plain and simple."

"I'm surprised you're so gung-ho to go up against Niska."

"Why? I went the last time, didn't I?"

"Even though it was, as you put it, suicide."

"Everybody's got to die sometime." Jayne shrugged. "Might as well be in a firefight with Niska's boys. Not that I intend to die. There'll be dying, I just don't count on any of it being me, if you know what I mean."

"You care about her very much, don't you."

"It ain't—Man made it clear that he was gonna go after all of us. I just plan on going after him first. That's all."

"It's all right to care, Jayne," Book said, real softly, like Jayne was some wet-behind-the-ears kid and not a man full grown. "About Kaylee. We all do."

Kaylee. She was always so damned cheerful, always thinking the best of folks—made you want to live up to her expectations. Or duct-tape her mouth shut and dump her in the hold for a week.

"Doc'll fix her up," Jayne said with a shrug as Book laid back on the bench and lifted the barbell. "He always does."

"We're good, people," the captain's voice came over the comm. "We're outta the woods."

Jayne whooped in answer, and Kaylee reached over to stroke Serenity's side.

"That's my girl," she said softly. "That's my good girl."

She grinned at Book, who smiled back at her before kneeling down beside her, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek just like her mamma used to do when she was a little kid and took sick. He frowned when it came away slick with sweat.

"I think we better get you back to the infirmary," he said as she coughed and then grimaced at the pain that shot through her abdomen. "Jayne?"

The mercenary stopped his victory dance and crouched down to Kaylee's side.

"I'm okay," Kaylee tried to protest.

"You been shot, child. Still a ways from okay."

Jayne scooped her up, lifting her like she weighed nothing at all, and she bit back a cry of pain.

"Guess those meds the doc gave me're wearing off," she conceded as she let her cheek drop to Jayne's shoulder.

Simon was in the infirmary when they got there. River lay on the bed built into the wall.

"River! Is she okay?" Kaylee asked as Jayne laid her on the examination table.

"She's okay. I just gave her a smoother."

Kaylee coughed again, and this time she wasn't able to keep from whimpering from the pain. Simon reached into his bag and removed a syringe.

"Pain?"

"Oh yeah," she said as her eyes blurred from the sudden tears. "Lots."

He rubbed the inside of her arm with alcohol before injecting her. Almost immediately, the pain began to recede.

"You're bleeding," she said muzzily. Simon blinked and touched his split lip in surprise.

"I'll be fine." He carefully peeled back the dressing on her wound, frowning at the blood. "You tore your stitches, getting out of bed."

"Maybe tore more'n that," she admitted.

"Lay back—I need to scan you. See if there's any internal bleeding." She shifted her weight, closing her eyes at the twinges of pain even the meds couldn't catch.

"Thank you, for what you did," Simon said softly as he passed the scanner over her. "For warning me about Dobson."

"Did he... I mean, is he—"

"He's dead," Simon said, his voice sounding flat and hollow. "The captain shot him."

She wanted to feel bad, about him being dead. He'd seemed so nice, when he'd signed on to be a passenger. But she couldn't help it. She was glad. She'd never been so scared, when he'd snatched Simon's little sister from the infirmary and pointed that gun at her. It was scarier than getting shot. That had happened so fast—one second she'd been walking through the door and next thing she knew, she was on the floor of the cargo bay.

"He was gonna shoot me in the throat," she said quietly. Even the reavers hadn't scared her the way Dobson's voice had, when he'd said he was gonna shoot her. Because this was a man who had smiled at her as he'd passed her the tomatoes at dinner. Someone she'd thought was a good man.

She'd frozen like a rabbit. To scared to move or breathe, even. She'd waited until his footsteps and River's whimpers had died away before she'd pushed herself off the bed and lurched to the comm on unsteady legs. She'd sank to the floor afterwards and stayed there.

It was Shepherd Book who found her. He'd come in, blood on his face and helped her back to the bed. He'd gotten a cloth to wipe the blood away from the cut, and she'd been about to ask him what had happened when Jayne had barrelled in and said they had to get her to the engine room.

"I'm sorry he ever shot you at all," Simon said, and she looked up into those blue, blue eyes and knew he meant it.

"You're limping, too," she said as he replaced the scanner in its casing.

Smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Jumped off a catwalk."

"Āiya, ù kê néng!"

"It's true. Landed right on him."

"Good," she said, smiling. "Hope you dented him."

"Now, you rest." He pulled a blanket over her, and the darkness came up to swallow her. She let it, thinking about those blue eyes and kind smile.

Wash awoke to darkness, panicked and unsure of where he was for the split-second between waking and hearing Zoe's steady breathing beside him.

Slowly he allowed his eyes to adjust, and the darkness softened. The glow from the green and red buttons of the comm on the wall next to the ladder gave him enough light to pick up shapes, rendering in shades of brown and grey what had been impenetrable blackness seconds before. Slowly, his home—his and Zoe's quarters—took familiar shape around them, banishing the memory of a back room. Warm sheets and a soft mattress chased away the cold touch of orange metal stretchers welded to a pipe frame. The scent of his wife's hair masked the smell of ozone and human flesh cooking like meat. He swallowed, tasting bile in the back of his throat.

Zoe shifted, her breathing changing, and then her hand was at his shoulder.

"Nightmare?" she asked, snuggling closer.

"Yeah," he said, still trying to shake off the effects. "Don't know if I'm going to get much sleep tonight."

"Gotta sleep. Can't get the bad guys if we don't sleep."

"How can you... I mean..."

"Practice," she said, stroking his hair. "Once you've slept in a foxhole while shells rained down and machine guns went off ten feet from your head all day and all night, you learn. You learn to grab what sleep you can. Even with the nightmares."

"Never thought I'd be jealous of your war stories..." he pressed a kiss to her temple. "I just can't stop thinking about it, you know?"

She went very still. "About what?"

"About everything. About what would have happened if you'd gone with Mal to meet Bolles, instead of me—"

She sighed and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. "Honey, we've been over that—"

"Zoe, that could have been you, months ago. If it hadn't been me, it would have been you. That could have been you, today, 'stead of Kaylee."

"Shhhhh, ài rén. No point in worrying over might-have-beens."

"No, Zoe—nî bù dông." His voice had an edge of desperation to it. "I was glad. I was so glad it wasn't you. Jesus, what kind of person am I—"

She laid a hand against his lips to stop the words. "You're my husband. You're my wonderful, brave, smart, heroic husband."

"I don't feel like a hero right now," he said, eyes burning with tears. "I feel like a monster."

"Baby, every man and woman who died in Serenity Valley—don't you think, even as I mourned them, I thanked God every second that it wasn't me who took that mortar shell? Lost a leg? Bled to death while we waited for them to negotiate the armistice?"

He shuddered. Zoe hardly ever talked about the war. Not like this. She was so calm, describing horrors that would have given him nightmares for years. A kind of calm that sometimes scared him.

"Captain's got a plan," she said, sound so sure. "It'll all work out, you'll see."

He wanted to have the same kind of trust in Mal that Zoe displayed every day. He didn't know if it was truly blind, or if she was trying to convince herself as much as him. But he couldn't stop himself from not believing. As much as it was Zoe's nature to trust, it was his to worry.

"How, Zoe? How will it work out? Even if we get the guy—that doesn't make it all go away. Doesn't mean it never happened, you know?" He buried his face in her hair, letting the curls wipe the tears away. "It just... I can't stop thinking about it."

"I know, baby," she said, pressing a kiss to his temple, and he thought for a moment he felt tears on her own cheeks.

Part IV

Hey you.

I know you're sleeping, and Simon says you probably can't hear me—he's medicated you against the pain, and you'll be out for a while. But just in case—just in case you can hear me, I want you to know you're not alone, mèimei. You'll never be alone, because there are people here who love you.

You'll never be alone. Not while I'm here.

Inara was already dressed, her personal belongings stowed for travel, when Mal appeared to tell her they had hit Bernadette's orbit. He was wearing the clothes he'd worn the day before, his blue eyes hooded and full of worry, and she knew that whatever her night had been like, his had most likely been worse.

"We'll send you a WAVE soon as we can," Mal said from where he had stood in the doorway. "To let you know—well... To let you know."

"Just come back," she'd said, her back to him as she'd prepped the shuttle for launch as Bernadette loomed in the distance, a serene blue ball with a scattering of white clouds that reminded Inara absurdly of the balls River and Kaylee used to play jacks.

"I'll do my best."

She turned in the pilot's chair, twisting so that she could see him. "I mean it, Mal."

"So do I."

She'd turned back to the shuttle controls so he couldn't see the tears in her eyes. She had heard his footsteps, and while every instinct screamed for her to go after him—that this might be the last time she would ever see him alive, she calmly continued her task.

After Mal had left her shuttle she had tried to rest, but sleep had refused to come. She had tossed and turned in her bed, and then finally given up. Serenity had been silent as the proverbial tomb. Wash had set the autopilot, and the lights were low, cast just enough illumination for someone to make out the deckplates and stairs. She could usually count on someone wandering through the ship even this late at night. Jayne, on his way to the galley to get a snack. Mal in the pilot's chair, staring at the stars. Or even River, sneaking out of the passenger dorm to dance to music only she could hear in the cargo bay. But Inara had made her way from her shuttle to the mess and back again without running into a single soul.

She had stopped in the infirmary, setting the steaming mug on the counter carefully, so as not to wake Simon, who was curled on his side on the bench built into the wall. The lights had been low, and she had stood next to Kaylee's bed, gingerly picking up the girl's unbandaged hand and holding it between her own.

Inara had prayed for Mal in the past, when he was out on dangerous smuggling jobs. She would never tell him. It would only infuriate him, to know that she had bargained a thousand times with merciful Buddha, promising that if they just came home safe and sound—whole and unhurt, she would...

She would do anything.

Kaylee was like a sister to her—a beautiful, naïve, free-spirited, genius mechanic sister. She would do anything to spare her pain, to keep her from harm.

While she had been making tea for the governor's son, Kaylee had been snatched off a street full of people in broad daylight.

While she had been seeing to Miller's physical needs, using all the years of her training, all the skill of her art, her friend had been viciously beaten and brutally raped.

While she had been docking her shuttle, thinking trivial thoughts about trivial things, her sister had been dumped like yesterday's trash outside their door.

As a message. To prove a point. To cow them, hurt them, make them understand that they were mortal. That they were fragile. And that they were at another's mercy.

Inara hadn't needed to see Kaylee broken to know that. She had been born knowing that. People were frail creatures, easy to damage. But to live in constant fear... that wasn't living. And that was what Niska wanted: to make her live in fear. And as much as she wanted to deny him that power over her, Kaylee's broken and battered body had shattered her resolve. He was winning, and she didn't know how to deny him that victory.

She had felt so ashamed, breaking down the way she had. Forcing Mal to comfort her when she should have been the one to provide comfort. All of her training was based around the idea of providing comfort to others. Not just the comfort her body could afford—companions were trained to provide solace and understanding for their clients. Seeing to the needs of their minds, their souls, as well as their desires.

But crying herself out in Mal's arms, it was as if all her training had fled. More and more, she felt like she was losing control. She had always held herself apart from this crew—this family. Always. But over the last several months, that studied detachment had eroded almost completely. Once, she'd believed she had to leave Serenity precisely because she no longer felt she could bear leaving. Now she knew she couldn't go. Couldn't leave Kaylee, or Mal. Couldn't imagine not being a part of this insane, rag-tag bunch of thieves and fugitives whom she counted among the best men and women she had ever known.

Well, except for perhaps Jayne.

Her fingers tapped the shuttle controls, laying in her course—her hands following the paths she knew so well out of habit, while her mind was still on the memory of Kaylee's hand on hers.

Inara felt as if the merciful Buddha had abandoned her. For the first time, she understood what it must have been like for Mal, the day the Independents had surrendered. Like there was no reason, no logic, no God. Because if there was a God, how could such a thing happen? How in the 'verse could such a thing even be possible?

"Just come back," she murmured to the empty shuttle.

Kaylee slid open the door to Simon's quarters carefully, trying not to make a sound in case he was sleeping. She was surprised to find the light still on, and him still awake. Simon grinned as he set down his reader, and she lifted the blanket and curled up next to him in the narrow bed.

"Your feet are like ice!" Simon hissed, as her bare feet met his calves.

"Sorry," she murmured, and dropped a kiss on his shoulder. "Deckplates just leech the warmth right outta me."

He leaned over her, groping across the floor before he came up with a pair of socks. "Why weren't you wearing shoes?" he asked as she sat up to tug them on.

"Just ran up to the engine room for a minute, to check on the catalyser—"

"That was two hours ago. I made it halfway through the latest medical journal Inara downloaded off the cortex for me."

"Well, yeah—meant to only be a minute, though," she admitted sheepishly. "I'm surprised you're awake. Couldn't sleep?"

"I've gotten used to not sleeping alone," he said with a chuckle as she pulled the covers back over them. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close, until they lay like two spoons in a drawer.

She relished the warmth of his arms around her, his breath warm on her neck. The last two months had been like a dream. Waking up beside him, sometimes to find him already awake and just watching her—it was the best dream she'd ever had. Sometimes, she pretended she wasn't dreaming. That this was reality. That this was forever.

Kaylee could admit to herself that she might be a romantic, but deep down, she knew that you work with engines long enough, you know that romantic notions don't make wheels turn. Don't keep you flying. Real life is about a certain amount of friction and grit that gums up the works, and someday, parts just plum wear out and need to be replaced. No matter how well you take care of them, no matter how good you are about making sure there's always enough oil to keep her running smooth—someday, a thing's gonna break. Won't be nobody's fault; that's just the way of things.

But moments like this, when the whole ship was quiet, the crew tucked into their beds and Simon's arms around her, she could pretend.

"I thought maybe you'd want your bunk all to yourself again," she said with a smile. The narrow berths of the passenger dorm were actually a few inches wider than the bunks in crew quarters, so she had spent more than a few nights in his of late. She was starting to forget what her own room looked like. "It being a tight fit, and all."

"I suppose we'll just have to make do," he said with a theatrical sigh that ruffled her hair. She reached up to lift it up, out of the way, and she shivered as he pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. "Though it does make me wonder how Zoe and Wash manage."

"Oh, they got a big bed."

"How big?" he asked, his mouth travelling down the side of her neck towards her shoulder slowly, teasing.

"Big enough," she giggled, then gasped as his teeth nipped gently at the spot where her neck curved into her shoulder. "Captain's wedding present was the bigger room," Kaylee recalled with a smile. "He gave them his quarters and he moved into Wash's old room next to mine. Then me and Jayne got them the big bed."

"How'd it fit through the door?"

"Well, you don't bring it all put together, silly," she said as she rolled over onto her back so she could look up into his face. He lazily stroked her ribcage, fingers sneaking beneath her shirt, dipping to trace the curve of her hipbone almost absently. "You bring all the pieces onboard one at a time, then put it together in the place where it's gonna stay. That's how you do, on a ship."

"Huh. I guess you learn something new every day."

She lifted her head for a kiss, twining her fingers in his dark hair and pulling him closer.

"So, you bring all the individual... pieces..." he said when he could catch his breath again. "And you put them together in the place they're going to stay?"

She swirled her tongue around the inside of his ear, gently taking the lobe between her teeth. "Yeah."

All thoughts of beds—other than the one the two of them were currently sharing—were driven out of Kaylee's mind as she pushed him over, onto his back. The blankets tangled between their legs as she straddled him. Thorough the soft grey cotton pyjama pants, she felt him getting hard as she leaned down and trailed kisses across his bare chest.

He closed his eyes, dark lashes like smudges against his cheeks as his breath quickened. Not for the first time, she was struck by how amazing he was. How amazing that they were there, together. That somebody as smart, and sophisticated, and just... shuài as Simon was hers. That he was hers, and that she was his.

She delighted in him, delighted in the sounds he made as her hands raked his chest lightly even as her mouth crept downward. Delighted in the way he gripped handfuls of the tan sheets as she edged backwards slowly, one leg on either side of his knees, as she dipped her tongue into his belly-button. She took joy in the way he gasped and arched his back as she caressed him through the thin layer of grey cotton. She took joy in the warmth that began to build inside her as his breath came faster, a flush creeping across his chest as he licked dry lips, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

One hand released tortured fabric and came up to brush her hair, and she pressed a kiss into the centre of his palm before she peeled off his grey cotton trousers. She tugged her own top over her head, tossing it so it landed on the floor next to his shoes before she wriggled out of her own pants. And then it was just them. Naked as the day they were born and ready for anything, she observed with a gleam in her eye.

Sometimes, it was quick. As if they'd go crazy if they couldn't touch each other, and every kiss was like fairy food that only made them crave more. Other times, it was slow—as if they had all the time in the world just to touch, and taste, and feel. But the one thing that never seemed to change was the incredible rush of elation Kaylee felt when they were together. Like nothing else in the world mattered when he was inside her, his hands gripping her hips as she moved. The entire 'verse narrowed to just the two of them.

When he came, crying her name, it didn't matter that he came from the Core, and she was from a poor backwater like Zephyr. When she lay across his chest, the sweat cooling on her body, her hair sticking to her cheeks and his neck, all that mattered was that she was his. And he was hers.

"How do you move it once it's all put together?" Simon asked as he turned off the light, and they pulled the blankets back over themselves. "The bed, I mean."

"Well, I s'pose you'd just take it apart again," she said after a moment.

"It's a good thing it's not going anywhere, then," he said, burying his face in her hair. "The bed. That would be an awful lot of work, taking apart something that had been put together so well."

"Yeah," she said softly, wondering if perha